Boredom and Whatever Follows That
by glo stars
Summary: Sherlock, once again, is bored. The victim of his last fit of boredom, a smiley face, sprayed in yellow paint with multiple bullet holes through it, is still evident on black and white patterned wall paper of 221b Baker Street. There's got to be something of interest in London. The art gallery?-pffft. A triple murder perhaps. Or a terrorism- there must be something to do.


A/N Please enjoy.

Sherlock behaved almost exactly the same inside his flat as he did outside, in busy, central London. His dramatic nature was not only encountered by the general public and his clients, but the people he met on daily basis and the people he lived with. John Watson, his friend and flat mate, was often audience to one of Sherlock's moods and often stood back frowning as Sherlock searched frantically through papers or used Mrs Hudson's wall for target practice. Sherlock did everything with more of a fuss than was really necessary. Also, Sherlock seemed to dominate their 'shared' flat with his repulsive experiments and vibrant and strange ideas. To say that he was unusual is an understatement. He left a severed head in the fridge and when John saw it, he thought Sherlock was a psychopath, even if the head was just being used in an experiment to measure the rate of coagulation of saliva after death. John's thoughts weren't unreasonable- many people thought that he was a psychopath, and they hadn't even found a severed head in their fridge, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes. But John was out, visiting his girlfriend and Sherlock had as much to do as a car a queue. Granted, one can roll down their windows and shout curses or honk their horn, but Sherlock travelled by taxi anyway.

"I. Am. Bored", moaned Sherlock, ruffling his black, curly locks and stretching, his blue eyes travelling the room for something of interest as he slumped against the back of the black, leather couch. His eyes landed on the wooden desk draw which contained a gun. Then the flicked to the dilapidated smiley face which had several bullet holes in it. He still hadn't repaired that. He couldn't use the gun- it would upset Mrs Hudson, and he was in no mood for her endless chatter. The knife that pinned the letters on his mantle piece glimmered in the sun's dusty rays. Sherlock stood up and strode over to it, pulling free from the letters and the wooden surface underneath. He twirled it in his hands and swore when it clattered to the floor. He stood for a moment, staring at it. He couldn't actually be bothered to pick it up. He was planning to do some knife throwing, but found his laziness outweighing his desire to thrown knifes. He stepped over the knife and then onto the coffee table, taking one pace forward and then stepping off it at the other end. He glanced back at the knife and then had a sudden desire to throw it. He leaped back over the table and picked up the knife, lobbing it at the wall, then going to where it quivered, embedded in the wall and pulled it out again, expression grim. At least this didn't make huge holes in the wall.

" The mark this knife makes is less than 4 cm in diameter and about 3 in depth. Mrs Hudson should be thankful: it's an improvement on the 6 cm in diameter and 6 depth mark that my bullets make in her wall. It's less noticeable", muttered Sherlock, the mental calculations making him feel a bit better.

After throwing the knife a few times at the wall, Sherlock turned his attention to the door. Now the door was far more if you throw a knife at a door, there is a small, but still possible chance that it might hit someone as they open it. John was perfectly right. Sherlock got kicks out of risking things. Sherlock frowned and turned away from the door. He didn't want to risk John's life by throwing the knife at the door he might just walk through. But one throw wouldn't hurt. He whirled around and threw the knife, the door opening the split second he released it, revealing John. In a flash it was over. The knife was thankfully embedded in the door frame, not John. Sherlock was still smiling, but now out of relief. John looked thoroughly shocked and stared at the knife that was inches from his face and then at Sherlock.

" Bloody hell Sherock!", he half shouted, his anger heightened at the half smile on Sherlock's face.

A/N Hope you enjoyed it. I know it was short and that there was no action or interaction, but I just wanted to set the tone :) PLEASE REVIEW: I need feedback on how good it was or not.


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